Anatoly had his war axe resting nonchalantly on his shoulder. He took one step toward the guard standing to the left of the dying sergeant, pulled down sharply on the handle of his axe, leveraging it off his shoulder, and flipped the blade over in a high arc with surprising speed. The first three inches of the razor-sharp crescent blade cut into the guard’s forehead down to the bridge of his nose, cleaving the front half of his head in two. Anatoly unceremoniously kicked the man in the chest to free his axe from the bone of his skull before the man could fall.
Only moments had passed. Alexander raced to the front of the alley where it spilled out onto the street. He stopped, standing over the corpse of the crossbowman who only seconds before had stood on the building above, and nocked his second arrow. The three remaining guards had regained their wits. The closest one spotted him and raised his round shield. Alexander calmly adjusted his aim and sent his arrow into the man’s thigh. The guard screamed and collapsed with a thud, writhing around on the ground in agony.
Just as Abigail made it to the front of the roof, she caught motion coming from a rooftop on the other side of the wall. It was the second crossbowman. She threw herself flat on her back as the short but fast crossbow bolt sailed toward her. It sliced across the top of her left shoulder. Had she been standing, the bolt would have caught her square in the left side of her chest.
She slid toward the front of the roof. Her arrow came free and skittered over the edge. She struggled to gain purchase but the shakes came loose under her and she continued to slide.
Anatoly faced the last two guards. Jack circled to the left, and they let him because they were clearly more worried about Anatoly. Anatoly stepped to the right and smashed that guard’s shield with the blade of his axe, rolling around the left side of the man and propelling himself into a tight spin. He finished behind the guard with his crescent-bladed war axe whistling around from the spin, catching him in the back of the neck. The guard’s head came free and spun end over end, trailing lurid streamers of blood, hovering in midair for a moment before it followed the body crashing to the ground in a crimson pool.
The final guard turned to face Anatoly. Jack slipped in and unceremoniously knifed him in the back. He fell forward with a look of surprised shock.
Abigail slipped over the edge of the roof and crashed into the awning. It broke her fall only partially as it gave way under the sudden load. She hit the ground hard amidst a shower of roofing shakes and splintered awning.
Alexander, seeing that the immediate threat had been eliminated, went to his sister. “Abby, are you okay?” he asked urgently, kneeling beside her.
She tested her limbs to make sure nothing was broken and nodded tightly. Blood soaked through her tunic at her shoulder.
Lucky rushed up, knelt alongside Alexander and began fishing around in his bag. “Lie still and let me tend to your shoulder. Can you move your legs? Does anything feel broken?” He was all business.
She shook her head slightly and gritted her teeth through the pain. “Crossbow on the roof,” she gasped in pain when Lucky went to work on her wound, “other side of the wall,” she managed through clenched teeth.
Lucky looked up at Alexander. “Go, I’ll take care of her.”
Alexander gave her hand a squeeze, then turned and shouted to Anatoly, “Crossbow on the roof.” Anatoly stopped short before going through the wall. Alexander and Jack came up alongside him.
“Alexander, follow me through with your bow ready.”
Anatoly was a soldier at heart. He was in his element. He picked up the corpse of the sergeant and slung a shield across the dead man’s chest. Holding the man in front of himself, he went through the crack in the wall. The crossbow bolt drove clean through the shield, through the sergeant’s leather breastplate, through his body and three inches out his back. Anatoly tossed the body to the ground and spun out of the breach to give Alexander a clear shot.
He didn’t waste it. The crossbowman was reloading. Alexander’s arrow caught him in the chest and drove through him clear to the feathers. The guard staggered back a step before toppling over backwards.
The battle had taken only seconds. A handful of people stood looking at the spectacle in shock and amazement. Moments later Lucky and Jack helped Abigail through the breach in the wall and they started moving into the poorer neighborhoods surrounding the Southport city wall. They made their way quickly but quietly through the shantytown that sprawled out onto the plains north of the city, avoiding contact with others as much as possible. The few people who did cross their path took one look at Anatoly and his bloody war axe and looked the other way.
Abigail recovered quickly and was moving on her own in no time. The bandage on her shoulder soaked through but it looked like the bleeding had stopped.
Jack led them in a winding path through the maze of haphazard houses until they reached the edge of town.
“The farmhouse is just over that rise,” Jack pointed at a small hill that rose up out of the fertile farmlands that gave Southport its purpose. “If we skirt the hill on that side we should be able to make it there unnoticed.”
Alexander looked around. They hadn’t drawn any attention and it didn’t look like they’d been followed. He nodded and they moved out away from the protection of the city’s concealment.
Alexander felt naked out in the open, vulnerable. If they were spotted by the wrong people before they made it to the farmhouse, they were in trouble. They rushed across the seemingly vast expanse of farmland, looking behind them for signs of pursuit but saw none. It looked like the city guard had lost their trail.
Minutes later they reached the safety of the little farmhouse. It was a simple house made from rough-cut timber with a shake roof and a broad, covered porch. Not far from the house, set close to the hillock that sheltered the cozy little estate, was a sturdy-looking barn with a stable and fenced paddock. There were half a dozen healthy-looking horses grazing lazily in the afternoon sun.
Under different circumstances it would have been almost idyllic. Before the events of the past week, Alexander had always pictured himself living in a simple farmhouse like this one. He had no desire to be Master of Valentine Manor. That had always been Darius’s destiny. His brother was the rightful heir, and he’d relished the role. Now he was gone. So many things changed that day.
Alexander pulled his thoughts back to the present when a short, stocky fellow came out of the house and onto the porch. He wore the simple clothes of a farmer. His broad shoulders looked to be a match for any job you might find out on the open range. He scanned the group approaching and, seeing Jack, raised a hand in greeting. He looked about ready to call out a greeting but a quick gesture from the Master Bard silenced him. He waited patiently as they came onto the porch.
Jack led the way. “Owen, it’s good to see you. We have guests. May I present Lord Alexander Valentine.” Owen bowed formally. “His sister, Lady Abigail Valentine; Master-at-Arms, Anatoly Grace; and Master Alchemist, Aluicious Alabrand.” Jack indicated each in turn. “This is my trusted apprentice Owen. He’s been minding the house for me.”
Owen smiled broadly. He had a simple, forthright nature about him and looked entirely comfortable in his own skin. Alexander let his focus slip so he could see Owen’s colors. His aura was about as honest and innocent as Alexander had ever seen.
“It’s an honor to meet you. Please come in. I have stew on the stove and a kettle of hot cider waiting.” Owen opened the stout door and took up the familiar role of host.
The beef stew was simple but hearty. Owen had a sheet pan of biscuits and a lump of rich yellow butter to go with it. Alexander couldn’t remember the last time a meal had been so satisfying. He was warm, his belly was full, and he felt safe for the first time in a week.
He sat in a comfortable chair near the warm stove with a mug of hot cider. He took time to simply savor the moment. The events of the past week danced at the edges of his awareness and the danger they represented only served to heighten th
e value he placed on the simple pleasures of warmth and safety.
Owen and Jack were busy clearing away the dishes from the meal and cleaning the little kitchen. Abigail had taken refuge in a large overstuffed chair that threatened to swallow her slight frame while she nursed a large mug of hot cider. Lucky was comfortably sprawled out on one of the two couches that framed the low table in the middle of the sitting room and was already snoring gently. Anatoly was the only one not taking the opportunity to relax. He stood at the window, scrutinizing the empty fields that lay beyond.
Alexander smiled. He thought of his parents. His father was fond of afternoon naps. Most days after lunch, Duncan Valentine could be found in his reading room, dozing in his favorite chair. His mother played at being his guardian, keeping the noisy children from disturbing her husband while he slept.
He realized just how much he had taken the simple treasures of his childhood and family life for granted. The love, guidance, and protection of his parents had just always been there like they were a natural part of the world, as dependable as gravity and as predictable as the sunrise. He swallowed the lump growing in his throat, sat up a bit straighter and took a deep breath to clear his head.
Owen and Jack finished up in the kitchen and came to sit on the couch opposite Lucky. The sun hadn’t set but the light of day was beginning to fade. It would be dark soon and they had a long way to travel in the coming days. Alexander decided that he had some questions.
Chapter 11
On the road from Valentine Manor to Southport he hadn’t been able to focus on anything but his grief for his brother and his worry for his parents. He still didn’t know if they had survived the zombie demon but he decided to believe that they had. His parents were resourceful, tough, and determined. They had both undergone the mana fast and survived it, and although neither had chosen to pursue mastery of magic, they were both capable of wielding power far beyond Alexander’s understanding. Not that he understood much about magic.
He cleared his throat. “Anatoly, would you join us, please? Abby, give Lucky a nudge, would you?” He motioned to the snoring alchemist with his chin.
She smiled as she reached out to poke him on the shoulder. He grumbled, snorted and came awake abruptly, sitting up in a rush as he did. Abigail chuckled softly. Alexander smiled. Anatoly even grinned at his old friend’s bleary eyes and disheveled hair as he took a seat next to him on the couch.
“Owen, thank you for your hospitality. This is the first time I’ve felt warm, safe, and full in several days,” Alexander said.
Owen smiled with unabashed pleasure at the sincere compliment. “You are most welcome, Lord Valentine. It is a privilege and an honor to be of assistance in your quest.”
Alexander smiled a little at the formality. “Owen, please call me Alexander.” He raised a hand to stifle the protest he could see building on Owen’s face. “As for our quest, well, that’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“Anatoly, you’re a Ranger. We’re headed to the Rangers of Glen Morillian.” Alexander looked at the big man-at-arms. “Why? What do the Rangers have to do with this?” He gestured to the mark on his neck.
Anatoly nodded the way he always did before launching into a lesson, marshaling his thoughts like they were legions on a battlefield.
“Your parents never had a reason to explain it all to you.” He took a deep breath. Lucky sat forward, silently offering to assist in the explanation. “Your bloodline was cursed two thousand years ago by the Old Rebel Mage, Barnabas Cedric. I don’t know much about him because he was so secretive and careful. I suspect they will be able to tell you more about him in Glen Morillian. I do know that he was the leader of those who fought against the Reishi Sovereign. When Malachi Reishi vanished, Prince Phane attempted to rally the remaining forces of the Reishi Army but they were destroyed in a terrible battle. Unfortunately, Prince Phane escaped and fled with his life. The Rebel Mage hunted him but was always one step behind the Prince. He knew that Phane could not be allowed to fade into hiding or he would regroup and the war would start all over again. When Phane realized that he would never be able to hide from the Rebel Mage, he did something entirely unexpected. He cast a spell originally created to imprison the most powerful of wizards, but he cast it on himself.”
Alexander interrupted, “Why would he do that?”
Anatoly looked around the room. Everyone waited in rapt attention. Alexander could almost see Jack taking notes in his head.
“Phane knew he couldn’t escape,” Anatoly continued with a shrug. “At least not anywhere on the Seven Isles. The Rebel Mage was a crafty old wizard and he’d managed to find Phane wherever he hid. For several years they played this game of cat and mouse until Phane simply had enough. So rather than constantly running and hiding, he fled to a place where he knew the Rebel Mage couldn’t follow. He fled into the future. The spell he cast stopped time for him and him alone. Within the obelisk of dark magic that has encased him for the past two thousand years, no time passed for Prince Phane.” Anatoly shook his head both marveling at the feat and disgusted by the result.
“But why wouldn’t the Rebel Mage just destroy the obelisk?” Alexander was starting to wish he’d spent more time reading the ancient histories in his father’s library.
“He tried. The story says he tried for a year to destroy the obelisk. He simply couldn’t. Nothing he did had any effect. He even tried to dig it up and move it, thinking he would take it out to sea and cast it in.” Anatoly grinned at that. “Imagine Phane’s surprise when he woke up on the bottom of the ocean?” Anatoly shook his head. “The thing wouldn’t budge.”
“The Rebel Mage was distraught,” Anatoly said. “He knew he’d cursed the world of the future to a terrible fate. When Phane woke, there would be no one with enough power to stop him. He’d be able to dominate the whole of the Seven Isles without challenge.”
“Why was he so sure there would be no one able to stop him? And what does this have to do with the mark on my neck?” Alexander could feel a rising sense of frustration. He’d kept these questions at bay for the past several days and now that he was facing them, he felt like he understood less with each answer.
Lucky took up the story. “Prince Phane is the last arch mage. He is the only arch mage alive anywhere on the Seven Isles. There are none who can hope to defeat him with magic.”
Alexander took a deep breath to suppress the feeling of hopelessness in the pit of his belly. “If there aren’t any wizards who can hope to kill him, then how am I expected to do it?” Before Lucky could answer, Alexander asked the more important question. “Why me? Why was I marked? Why was our bloodline cursed?”
Lucky took a deep breath, pursed his lips and began again. “We don’t really know why the Rebel Mage chose your bloodline, only that he did. You see, when he realized that Phane would be loosed on an unsuspecting future, he conceived of a plan to protect the future as best he could. The major parts of his plan that we know of are the curse, the magic circle, and the Rangers.” Lucky held up his hand to forestall Alexander’s next barrage of questions.
“We don’t know why he choose your bloodline, but the purpose of the curse is to identify the champion who will lead us in the coming struggle for freedom. The magic circle he placed around the Obelisk served to warn the world that Phane was awake and to activate the curse by branding you with the glyph of the House of Reishi. The Rangers exist to serve you in the coming war.”
Alexander was aghast. He sat, mouth agape, and stared at Lucky as if he’d just grown an arm out of his forehead. The questions were tumbling through his mind so quickly that he couldn’t grab hold of one and blurt it out. It was surreal. To think that he, a glorified ranch hand, was going to lead the Rangers against the tyrannical ambitions of a two-thousand-year-old arch mage. Alexander started laughing. Abigail looked worried. Jack and Owen shared a furtive glance but Anatoly and Lucky didn’t waver.
He chuckled as he looked into his mug of cider, then nodded and took a long p
ull, draining it completely. He swallowed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and resumed staring into his empty mug.
“Why aren’t there any arch mage wizards?” Alexander finally found a question he could put words to.
“Ultimately, that was what the whole war was fought over. The Reishi had originally discovered the secret to making Wizard’s Dust…” Lucky’s voice trailed off as Alexander put his head into his hands.
“Every time I ask a question you go off about something else and set a dozen more questions rattling around in my head,” he complained.
“Patience, my boy,” Lucky said. “It’s a complicated explanation that requires some groundwork. These are things you should have been taught years ago but your parents insisted that you be allowed to just be a boy. They believed as we all did, that Darius would be the one marked if the curse was activated in this generation.
“Now, where was I… ah yes, the short answer is, there are no more arch mage wizards because the secrets to achieving that level of mastery were lost in the war. You’ve heard of the mana fast?”
Alexander nodded.
Lucky continued, “The mana fast is how wizards and witches are made. After much preparation and training and once their Master Wizard consents, an apprentice will undergo a weeklong fast, consuming nothing but water and Wizard’s Dust. It’s a trial of character that can be fatal to those who are unprepared and even to some who are. During this week of fasting, the apprentice undergoes great changes.” Lucky paused for emphasis. “They become open to the firmament that underlies all of creation.
“Once an apprentice has survived the mana fast, he becomes a novice wizard and the real work begins. Linking one’s mind to the firmament is always dangerous. Without sufficient discipline and control, a person’s mind can become lost in the stuff of creation.”
Thinblade Page 9
